Frances caught sight of her dress, left in a pile ashore. The tide had gone in, threatening to wash it away from the sand.

Her numb legs touched the sand beneath the surface. She felt … washed, clean. Much cleaner than after this dreadful battle. The men she'd killed still haunted her dreams, but less than Helm's deep victims. She was starting to get used to it; to killing. Her disgust still lingered. For each man whose life she ended, a piece of her soul was eaten. Should she come back ashore, really? Perhaps it was better to let the Ocean wash her away.

As the waves crashed on her legs, pushing her to the beach, Frances's gaze suddenly caught a lone form beside her dress. Broad shoulders encased in a vest of leather, shaggy mane hiding his eyes, dagger in hand. Frances' heart leapt into her throat. Tristan's piercing eyes followed her as she struggled to reach the beach, a silent reprobation shining in his gaze. But then, just as she was about to smile to quell his anger, he disappeared. His in place, nothing left but a memory.

Frances started, wondering if this impromptu sea bath had impaired her mind. Tristan was no more. She needed to let go, to honour his memory rather than wishing him here. She needed to accept he'd died and saved so many lives. Maybe he was happy, up there, meeting his end with bravado. Tristan was now, a war hero. His teachings would remain, Galahad's proficiency with a bow, Gawain's knife-throwing skills, and plenty of other tips he'd shared. But from now on, Frances needed to move on. His body had been committed to the earth, his spirit freed.

Tristan was dead.

Frances didn't have time to linger on the thought as yelling was heard on top of the cliff. Up there stood Galahad and Gawain, faces ashen, their arms shaking in anger. Dagonet was darting down the trail to join her, sure-footed. Nothing like Tristan, of course, but… The young woman shrugged, wondering why the hell those two knights were screaming about until the healer joined her on the beach. It was just as well, she couldn't remove her shift with the limited span of her stupid left arm. A quick glance at Dagonet caused her to wonder what had panicked the knight so, but she didn't give him time to explain.

— "Well met, Dagonet. Would you mind helping me dress? This blasted shoulder doesn't want to cooperate."

The knight started, frozen in place for a moment. Then he nodded, and helped her put on her dress as his gaze lingered ashore. He was such a gentleman, never taking a peek, never taking advantage of a woman. When, at last, he rolled her up in a blanket, Frances smiled at him.

— "Thank you, this is very thoughtful."

Dagonet snorted at that, giving her a piece of his healer's mind.

— "What were you thinking? Jumping into the sea with your injured shoulder, and this temperature?"

— "It helps. The cold numbs the pain, and the ocean always soothed my mind. It gives me some perspective."

Dagonet gave her a startled look.

— "You can swim?"

— "Of course, I'm not dumb."

The young woman sat, her gaze lost in the waves until the tall knight settled beside her, his berating forgotten.

— "Did it work?"

— "A little."

Except for seeing Tristan's ghost. Ahem.

A song formed in her mind, the lyrics so true that it tumbled from her lips immediately. And for once, Frances didn't feel self-conscious to be singing in front of somebody else. She had to get it out of her system.

"Where do we go from here?[1]
Where do we go from here?
The battle's done,
And we kind of won
So we sound our victory cheer

Where do we go from here?
Why is the path unclear?
When we know home is near
Understand
We'll go hand in hand
But we'll walk alone in fear

Tell me
Where do we go from here?
When does the end appear?
When do the trumpets cheer?
The curtains close
On a kiss god knows
We can tell the end is near."

There, she'd said it. The curtains closed on a kiss, and she didn't know what to make of it. Damn, this Buffy musical was so good it imposed itself at the least possible moment. Frances shared a thought for Joss Whedon and his incredible masterpiece. Buffy kissing Spike, when her heart belonged to Angel… She, kissing Tristan, when her heart was set on a woodland elf…

Sometime, the Keeper of Time felt very much like Buffy did, chosen by higher powers and unable to get free. Except that the Valar were much better bosses than the Powers that Be.

Hopefully, Dagonet couldn't understand the words she sang. English was not a language yet, wasn't it?

— "It is a very sad song, Frances. What does it mean?"

Damn.

— "It means the battle is won, for the moment, and I have no idea where to go from there."

The tall knight nodded, his face pensive. If he expected her to speak more, nothing came, hence his pointed questions.

— "This is about Tristan, isn't it?"

Frances sighed.

— "Yes."

If there was anything she'd learnt from the scout, it was that monosyllabic responses and short sentences always made the trick to deter questioning. Unless you faced a compassionate Dagonet, that is.

— "I'll be blunt, since you seem intent on keeping your ailments close to your chest. I've seen the embrace he gave you before the battle."

The word "kiss" was not uttered, but it hung in the air nonetheless. Frances's alarmed expression compelled him to add:

— "I believe I was the only one."

Another heart-wrenching sight escaped her lips before she turned to him fully, hazel eyes clouded by doubt and self-loathing.

— "Tell me Dagonet, how can I claim to be faithful when I actually loved it, uh? It felt … right."

— "I don't know," was his truthful answer. "But the affection was true. You may still love your betrothed, but what you gave Tristan was worth it, and what he gave you in return was more than I have ever seen from him."

Dagonet nearly bit his tongue to refrain from telling her the whole truth. That Tristan loved her, fully and hopelessly. At this point, it could only bring more hurt. His friend was no more, burnt to the ground, his love buried with him.

— "My heart is a traitor."

The tall knight reached for her uninjured shoulder, his fingers enclosing the tiny spot where her collarbone connected with the muscles.

— "Your heart is true. There are many types of love, Frances. Do not dismiss it, do not desecrate it nor deny it."

His voice was solemn, his plea an order. When had Dagonet become such a wise man? Obviously, he was the one remaining knight that knew Tristan the most, and she needed to unburden herself from the dreadful secret that had fuelled her guilt those past days.

— "I knew he was going to die, Dagonet. Deep down, I knew it!"

The response wasn't a shocked gasp, neither a frown. Instead, the giant of a man just allowed his clear gaze to caress the waves.

— "Then he knew it too."

Frances sighed; yes. Tristan had known that much. But it wasn't the reason her conscience tugged so desperately.

— "Not much passed the scout, Frances, especially when it came to you."

— "Why does it feel so wrong?" she asked, voice broken.

— "Loss always feels wrong. And you know Tristan would have found another way to die. Bedivere chose to, as well, and it was Tristan who did it."

Tears flooded her eyes anew, and Frances couldn't even hide her face in the crook of her knees because that blasted collarbone wouldn't let her move forward. Silent Dagonet landed his meaty hand on her shoulder, once more offering his wisdom.

— "The world is never at peace. Without you by his side, Tristan wouldn't have lasted. He's longed for death far too long."

If you'd stayed to keep me in check, maybe I'd been a better man.

His exact words. Frances gasped; had his words not been clear enough? Had she been so oblivious? No, she was probably making a mountain out of a hill. The scout wasn't one for sentimentality.

— "Come now, you'll catch your death if you stay here, and Gawain and Galahad will have my hide."

Frances squinted her eyes, seemingly amused by the knight's antics.

— "Is that what they were yelling about?"

— "Quite. I heard many colourful words on the cliff. Thought I'd have a look myself."

— "And what did you find?"

— "A selkie"

A shocked look crossed her face, soon replaced by the impassive mask he'd seen on Tristan more often than not. Selkies belonged to the Irish folklore, stories of seals that took human form to roam the earth, find a lover, and plunge back into the sea afterwards. Leaving behind, a broken-hearted man… That Dagonet would have heard about it spoke of his broad mind and education. That he would compare her short, but intense passage with the knights to a selkie's errand, well. It left a sour taste in her mouth. Yet, she couldn't fault him for the comparison. Was he angry at her actions, at the effect she'd had on his friends? On Tristan? Better not to ask, she couldn't handle the response anyway.

Now was the time, maybe, to get back to the sea of her life.

So, step by step, Frances climbed the steep hill that led her to the makeshift camp. She was so weak that Dagonet had to wait for her at every turn. But at last, they reached the summit and he led her to a tent. A maid helped her wash her hair and dress again, but she didn't remove the scent of the Ocean upon her skin. It smelt so good after Badon Hill. Blood and grime had filled her nostrils for days: let the Sea wash it away like the suffering of the dead.

Frances sat on the cliff, watching the sea engulf what remained of the beach with the incoming tide. White splashes overtaking sturdy rocks, an endless ballet of water covering sand and seaweeds. Her mind blanked, watching the repetitive moves, until she found, deep within, the single string of her bond to Legolas. It was here still, that tiny spark of joy buried in her heart. She basked in her betrothed's light for a moment, invoking his smile in her mind. The feeling of him soothed her battered soul, as if his bright being could light up the fire in the deadened cave of her heart.

Frances smiled. Yes, he could, but he wasn't alone. For a moment, she felt a weight upon her shoulders, as if a blanket had been laid out to keep her warm. A ghost, perhaps, or a spirit was greeting her with benevolence. The young woman closed her eyes; she knew that presence. Someone who made her feel safe, a protector… The feeling of completion took her away from the spark that resided in her heart, leading her to another line of certainty. Frances followed it, and it became a bridge that soared in the immensity. A string that called her home…

When the young woman opened her eyes, she knew her time was up. She sighed. Yes, the comforts of home were calling to her, and she needed to resume her search for Legolas. She couldn't tarry in the fifth century forever, and this harsh world didn't really have much to offer anyway.

But damn, she would miss…

— "There she is!"

Frances' lips quirked. Yes, she was going to miss the knights for sure. Two thuds around her told her she was surrounded. Galahad, on the left, was giving her an earful about how worried he had been. Gawain, on the right, was pointing to the waves below.

— "You are mads, woman?"

Frances waited for their berating to cease before she quirked an amused eyebrow.

— "Saxons didn't kill me, I hardly think taking a bath would do the trick, right?"

— "A bath? Is that what you call a bath?" Galahad yelled.

She turned to the young knight with a frown. He seemed very upset, but she couldn't reach for him to settle him. Her left side was unusable at best.

— "I'm sorry Galahad. I should have warned you. The cold makes the pain bearable, that is all."

A scoff from her right told her the tawny knight didn't quite see the therapeutic interest of imitating seals.

— "You're crazy!"

Frances shrugged her right shoulder, her eyes returning to the mesmerising ballet. She wondered if Tristan would have enjoyed the sea … how about her elf? How she longed for Legolas to discover the shores of southern Gondor. Or perhaps the Grey Havens? Was she crazy, really, for enjoying the blunt energy from the Ocean?

— "I've been called this occasionally."

— "That's because you are", Gawain deadpanned.

A full smiled bloomed upon her face. Sweet Gawain, may he never change!

— "From where I'm from, it is not unusual to swim. My neighbours have a pool in their garden, I was taught to dive here. And believe me, with 7 other boys, I had to hold my ground in the water as well."

Fond memories of "crocodile" games resurfaced. Fortunately, she swam faster than her brothers, and had no qualms diving to the bottom to escape the appointed "crocodile" intent on catching her.

— "Will you go home?" Gawain asked.

It was no use lying to them; she felt it in her bones. Now that this unknown presence had shown her the way, Frances wouldn't ignore that her life was about to resume. And this blasted pain would at least give her some respite if she was reconstructed. For the moment, the simple act of sleeping was a challenge.

— "Frances?"

Reality was calling.

— "Yes, very soon."

Galahad couldn't cover his gasp as he reached for her hand.

— "You are leaving?"

She turned to him, twisting to the best of her abilities. His clear eyes were pleading, and for a moment her heart clenched. The pup still needed her, but she couldn't stay to play the sister. He would have to be content with his brothers and commander once more.

— "I'm sorry, Galahad. I still need to find my betrothed."

His face fell, but a strange determination replaced it. As if he had made her quest his own mission.

— "Right. Where will you go?"

His acceptance surprised her, but she wasn't about to complain. Especially since he had not asked whether they would meet again. Frances squeezed his hand once; yes, she was going to miss them. So, where to?

— "Gaul, for starters. Then who knows."

And nothing there was a lie.

Arthur's wedding day.

The first notes of the piano echoed in her ears and Frances was surprised altogether. She couldn't recall whose artist it was, nor when she'd copied that particular song into her mp3 player, but it strangely fit her mood. Melancholy. How fitting that the last song that Tristan had played on the futuristic device would be one of separation. How ironic that he couldn't even understand the words.

Yet… Tristan had been a sensitive man. He, better than anyone, could have picked up the mood of this song. Despite the words, the music spoke by itself. It was oddly soothing, if edged with sadness, to hear English again. It felt like home, somehow.

So Frances walked, slowly, among the trees that hung above the shoreline as she soaked into the music.

"I had to find you
Tell you I need you
Tell you I set you apart

Tell me your secrets
And ask me your questions
Oh let's go back to the start
Running in circles, coming up tails
Heads on a science apart

Nobody said it was easy
It's such a shame for us to part
Nobody said it was easy
No one ever said it would be this hard
Oh take me back to the start."[2]

The device died before the song ended, but Frances' cheeks were damp with tears. Blasted scout, what a message he'd left unknowingly! Blasted machine, for playing the last song he'd heard before his death. Blasted place, where English was not even a language yet ! Historians would kill to be in her place, to witness the great wedding of Arthur and Guinevere, but Frances couldn't help but feel homesick. She'd done her part and lost herself on the way.

Legolas' shining presence and middle earth's beautiful landscapes were but a memory now. She wondered, after all the horrors Aragorn, and Legolas had seen, why they remained so sturdy. So… sane ? Perhaps middle earth was a place of magic altogether, where the everlasting presence of the Valar protected people's mind from decay. She wasn't sure, but this mission here, in the fifth century, had been more crippling than anything she'd lived in middle earth.

And the knights… the Picts, the villagers. All of them a little crazy, in their own way. How could they not be when beating one's child for disobedience was still the norm ? When a whore being murdered was not a rare occurrence ? When women and children were reduced to starving whenever their men died ? No orphanage, no public care, no healing for free… and slaves, whether official or unofficial, were not frowned upon. Arthur himself wore a haunted look, the proud father of a brood of knights whose souls had been ripped apart under his care. How wretched, to bestow upon him the burden to watch his wards die on the call of duty, and then reveal to him that Rome – the very reason he bore it without rebelling – was but a fantasy.

No, this place could only kill her slowly. Frances didn't have the guts to live here. She'd miss them, for sure. Galahad's puppy eyes, Gawain's bear hugs, Lancelot's antics, Dagonet's quiet presence… even Bors' boisterous laugh. Always the same conflict ; to abandon the ones she loved. To think they would go on with their lives, forget about her, that she'd become no more than a memory tore at her heart. Someday, she would read about them in specialised websites and antique books. Someday, legends would be written about them, twisting reality so much that they would become different people. The lore of Tristan and Isolde… what a scam !

But such was the will of the Valar. She was the Keeper of Time, her mission was accomplished. Or failed. Either way, it was the end.

Her steps took her deeper into the forest, searching for solace amidst the trees that braved the harsh winds of the coast. There was none to be found, for instead, she stumbled upon a gathering of Picts. Women, children, and ordinary men attended daily chores in the makeshift camp, blue paint absent for they only wore it to fight. Wary eyes followed her as she trod through, curious about these people who had harassed the knights to reclaim their land. Who could fault them for trying ? After all, the French resistance had fought with the same fervour during occupation in World War II. Wondering once more how those people – Picts and Britons under Roman rule – would merge the gap of hatred, she caught sight of Merlin walking to her.

— "Mae Govanenn[3], Keeper of Time."

An elvish greeting, to mark her as the messenger of the Valar, no doubt.

— "Greetings, Merlin"

— "Perhaps it is time now to correct this pronunciation of yours. My name is Myrddin. Merlin is what the Romans called me, for lack of better understanding."

Frances turned the name around in her mouth, amused at the everlasting problem of foreign languages. Myrrdin. Still, the legends would never quote him as such.

— "And Merlin is the name by which you will be remembered, Myrrdin. And what of Guinevere ? Has her name been butchered as well ?"

— "No, but I do call her Gwen when my heart yearns for familial ties to supplant those of duty."

A fond expression softened Merlin's sharp angles, and Frances couldn't help but scowl at the reminder of her last encounter with his daughter. Her manipulation of Arthur's feelings didn't abide with her ethics.

— "Be thankful she is alive," she ground. "Without Lancelot, she would be dead."

Frances' fist shook; Lancelot was alive because Merlin's voice – echoing in her head – had prevented her, at the very last moment, to save Tristan.

— "I am grateful you heeded my warning."

The young woman snorted.

— "You didn't make it easy to ignore, Myrddin. I have hated you for issuing it. For the record, if you could return the favour and keep an eye on Guinevere, I'd be grateful."

The magician scowled.

— "She is to be Queen. Do not let your anger alter your judgement, Keeper of Time."

— "I do not… !"

Frances exhaled slowly, keeping her temper in check. It was no use defending herself on those accusations if she wanted Merlin to hear her.

— "How much do you know about the future, Myrrdin?"

His eyes lifted to the sky for a moment, as if searching his memories.

— "Not much, except that I must work to ensure that earth will not be prey to another set of enemies."

— "What about Arthurian legends ?" Frances prodded. "Anything about the fall of the Kingdom ? Arthur's death ?"

— "No, I have no memories of it, I probably erased it before coming down."

Frances nodded. Time was a fleeting thing, one that the Ascended could roam at will in their ethereal form. But as a human, knowing the future could overload the mind and cause harm, preventing people from accomplishing their destinies. It made sense that, in his wisdom, Myrddin would have purposely removed this knowledge from his memory. Still, she needed to issue the warning to someone who could understand its implications.

— "Guinevere and Lancelot are the reason why the Kingdom falls. Even now, they are already drawn to each other. Should they succumb to their infatuation, they would condemn Arthur."

Soaking in this new information, the leader of the Picts walked in silence, leading her to a path hidden under the trees where the wind was but a murmur. For a long time, he remained silent, until the sea appeared below their very feet. Then, as the waves gently crashed on the cliff side, Merlin turned to her.

— "Our free will is sometimes the only thing that we have when it comes to leaving a print in this world."

Frances huffed, irked by the cryptic wisdom that felt so empty. No philosophy would ever compensate the death of a good man, of a good friend. Hence the contempt in her voice as she answered.

— "Let's hope that Guinevere's choices don't erase all the sacrifices I've made."

— "You are bitter, Keeper of Time. I understand. It is a heavy burden you carry."

There was much sadness contained in his ageless eyes. An ancient being, from the lost city of Atlantis, who's chosen to incarnate in the flesh for the betterment of men. He too must have faced difficult choices in his long years. Anger fled her, pouring down to the sea, swallowed and cast away by the waves. Despair remained, though, and Frances sighed.

— "For once, I'd like to do what's right for me, and not for the world."

A slight smile crooked Merlin's lips.

— "That time may yet come, do not despair."

Frances sighed, unconvinced.

— "May your words be true, Myrrdin."

— "Someday, they will. Namarië, Keeper of Time[4]"

The mysterious leader addressed her a pointed look and turned around, leaving her on the cliff side.

— "Namarië, Myrrdin of the Alterrans"

[1] Once more with feeling, Buffy the Vampire slayer

[2] 'The scientist,' coldplay. Remember that song, you'll see it in the sequel 😊

[3] Well met

[4] Goodbye